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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29882394">Cigarettes &amp; Spaghettification</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromjannah/pseuds/jannah'>jannah (fromjannah)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Afterlife, Canonical Character Death, Could Be Canon, Dead TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Dead Wilbur Soot, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Traumatized TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Vilbur My Beloved, Villain Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, not actually RPF, please don't let this age poorly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 03:15:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,835</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29882394</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromjannah/pseuds/jannah</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy and Wilbur converse about pain, punishment, time, and solitare in the void of the afterlife. Wilbur's having fun. Tommy isn't.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>125</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Cigarettes &amp; Spaghettification</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Any hope for Wilbur and Tommy having a good relationship is gone, crab rave. We won with Vilbur, but at what cost?</p><p>That five minute conversation over the black screen from the resurrection stream has been the only thing in my mind lately, so, yeah, more fic.</p><p>TW for mentions of how Tommy died, smoking, anxiety, and themes of manipulation. Let me know if I should put other warnings, please! </p><p>Clarke and Levi, if you're reading this, hi! Please get your accounts faster so I can gift things to you both! </p><p>This is about the DSMP characters, not the CCs. Enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tommy was once under the impression that after death, he would get to have a break from things that seemed to only trouble the living -- pain, for example. It seemed pretty damn fair to assume that once you died, you wouldn't feel pain anymore, because you were fucking dead. </p><p>He was wrong, because obviously the universe had to go <em> ooooh memememememe this very big man had to go through multiple wars during his adolescence and also have his brother die also get exiled by his best friend and also get gaslighted by some weirdchamp green bastard and also watch his country get blown up three times also then die after getting beat up by that green bastard after everything started to look up AND ALSO feel every single bit of that pain during death. No rest for you! </em></p><p>Usually it's a full, constant kind of pain -- stitched into the fabric of his being, instilled into his bones, complete with the vivid, nearly palpable memory of blood drenching his hair, filling up his mouth. It's horrible, but it's bearable. Tommy's just about accepted it, really. </p><p>But sometimes, oh, god, <em>sometimes</em>, there's the shredding, the pulling. It reminds Tommy of that thing that happens in black holes -- spaghettification, that was the actual, official term, he remembers it from Tubbo's space phase -- and that is <em>pain. </em>That is every atom of him being shoved through a paper shredder, that is every cell of his body being impossibly stretched across hundreds of thousands of miles. </p><p>It's one such day in the goddamn afterlife -- nearly a month in, if the obsessive counting they had to do for Schlatt is to be believed -- that one of these waves of pain hit. In the everlasting expanse of the void, Tommy doubles over, gritting his teeth together. "Oh, <em> fuck."</em></p><p>"What?" asks Wilbur, somewhere near him as always. Tommy can hear him shuffling his stupid cards for another stupid round of stupid solitaire. "One of those… what d'you call it, spaghetti aches hitting you again?"</p><p><em> "Spaghettification," </em> corrects Tommy on Tubbo's behalf as the sharpest of the pain eases. He gingerly rubs his jaw -- the lasting pain has decided to congregate itself there, for the most part. That was where one of the first punches had been -- Tommy can recall the <em> crack </em>vividly, echoing around the room, lava bubbling away. "And yeah, no shit. Don't tell me you're playing more fuckin' solitare."</p><p>In the darkness, he can just see the mocking, harsh curve of Wilbur's grin, the glint of his bone-white teeth. "C'mon, Tommy, it's fun! We -- we have fun, don't we?"</p><p>Tommy snorts dismissively, rubbing his arms with weak, tentative hands. His long legs dangle aimlessly through the air. <em> Fun</em>. Yeah, so much bloody fun, feeling like you're getting torn apart to bits, only to get shoved back together. "'S not fair. <em> You </em>never get spaghettified."</p><p>Wilbur only replies after a long, tense pause. "No," he says, voice going a bit lower, a bit quieter. "But I can still feel it, y'know."</p><p>"Feel what?" Tommy asks without quite thinking it through, immediately wishing that he could take it back. </p><p>"The sword." Another pause, filled only by the near-silent <em> swish </em> of shuffling cards. "It's -- it's always going into my stomach, pushing through, farther and farther" -- despite not being able to see him, Tommy can easily imagine Wilbur morbidly pantomiming along -- "but never going out through the other side. Just twisting around my guts. Festering." </p><p>Tommy swallows nothing down an esophagus that has been blocked up by some dam that came with death. Something juvenile and reactory comes up to his lips, but he can't quite say it. </p><p>"It's our punishment, I think," Wilbur says, voice fluidly refilling with macabre cheer. It almost reminds Tommy of his ghost, almost more so than Pogtopia. "We -- we were so horrible for the server, y'know, we caused so many problems. The pain we brought -- it's being returned, constantly, always. It's like -- like karma."</p><p>"No, no, no, no, stop it," Tommy says, pressing his hands to his ears as his breathing begins to speed up. In his mind, flashes of memories play -- a rough hand shoving him away from a podium, the echoes of an anthem being sung in a ravine, so much goddamn TNT, <em> do you want to be a hero, Tommy?, </em> a house burning down, obsidian walls coming up, <em> as long as you aren't the next Wilbur, </em> Logstedshire, an empty beach party, blue, a pool of lava, <em> welcome home, Theseus!</em>, more goddamn TNT, <em> but what am I without you?, </em> more lava, a dying cat, a fist to his face. "Just -- just stop, you keep saying these things and they -- they get me fuckin' <em> anxious,</em> man, you can't keep -- "</p><p>"I think I'm right, though," Wilbur continues brightly, not even bothering to address Tommy's protests. There's a riffling noise, like he's dragging a finger down the side of his card deck. "You know I'm right. It's -- it's the most logical explanation. Bit of cruel irony, really. We weren't exactly saints."</p><p>Tommy presses his hands harder, bringing his knees up to his chest as he slowly tumbles through the void. </p><p>"I'm so glad you're here, Tommy," Wilbur says for the hundredth time, he hasn't gone a day without saying it a least once. The card sounds have stopped, like he's finally put them down. "Schlatt never talked about these things with me. It's so nice to have your space finally filled." </p><p><em> "Stop it," </em> Tommy repeats, voice raising and echoing, shutting his eyes only to see the same nothingness he is stuck in. His breathing is very loud now, tremulous as well. He inhales and exhales over and over again, trying to calm himself down, trying to ground himself but that's pretty fucking difficult when there is <em> no ground </em> and god he hates it here -- </p><p>"It'll never stop, Tommy," Wilbur says with a light, patronizing scoff. Tommy can just imagine that cocky half-smile and those glowing, manic brown eyes fixated on something far away, unattainable. "But you already know that, don't you?"</p><p>---</p><p>"How long's it been," asks Tommy another day in a flat monotone, not even really a question. The ache's all spread out today, from every inch of his skull to the tips of his toes. Even blinking hurts, even flexing his fingers. </p><p>"Since, what, the -- the beginning of the universe?" Wilbur responds almost instantly, the crisp sound of him taking out his goddamn papers following.</p><p>"No, not since the beginning of the universe," answers Tommy, irritated, rubbing at his sore eyes with his sore hands. He isn't entirely sure what this new obsession of Wilbur's is about, but he doesn't like it at all. It makes him feel even smaller, even more insignificant. Maybe that's why Wilbur takes solace in it. "I don't care about your fuckin' universe facts or whatever. Since I've been here." </p><p>Wilbur hums a tune to himself passively, pondering it over. "A little over a month, I think. Haven't counted since Schlatt went back to sleep. He talked a lot about real estate before going off, d'you know what that was all about?"</p><p>"No, I don't know why he's talking about real estate shit, why would I?" Tubbo was always the one who was, for some reason, interested about real estate. Tommy couldn't care less -- it wasn't like Schlatt could send his ghost to start renting Airbnbs out from death, anyway. "A little over a month, you said?"</p><p>"Something like that." There's the sharp <em> crack crack crack </em> of a lighter -- Wilbur's getting out one of his cigarettes, then, Tommy surmises. He's gotten good at the whole getting-information-from-sounds thing. Even though he's been here for ages, his eyes haven't adjusted to the dark, it's just all <em> void</em>. The peeks of whatever's around him are always random, sudden, ephemeral. </p><p>His guess is confirmed by the briefest glimpse of a tiny flame and a very faint wisp of smoke making its way over to Tommy, just barely smelling of tobacco. Wilbur had smoked a lot when he was younger and then got back into it in exile. For Tommy, the stench of cigarettes in the ravine had been ubiquitous. Phil had hated that Wilbur smoked -- apparently Technoblade could go off and obliterate innumerable orphans, but he drew the line at the possibility of Wilbur getting addicted to nicotine. </p><p>The smell is not nearly as strong as it would be in life, but it still overwhelms Tommy's nostrils and takes him back to Pogtopia so he wrinkles his nose and tries to block it out. "Why does Schlatt have us count, anyway?" he asks, irritation bleeding back into his tone. The afterlife was prosaic in every way, and the droning counting that Schlatt demanded in the rare instance that he was awake certainly didn't help. </p><p>Wilbur exhales and Tommy thinks that he  might've done so in his direction, because the stench of tobacco is amplified a touch. Prick. "It didn't always used to be this dark, y'know," he says, contemplative and reminiscent, prevaricating in an all too familiar manner. A long, pensive drag. "We -- we used to be able to see more than just... solitaire cards."</p><p>"Fuck your stupid <em> solitaire cards </em>," groans Tommy. He's starting to think that Wilbur was right about punishment. He even briefly contemplates calling for Mexican Dream for a distraction, but he's not in the mood to have his eardrums blown to bits, the smell of cigarettes is already too much. </p><p>"C'mon, Tommy," Wilbur implores with that honey-sweet voice of his, enunciating each letter with special care. It has the opposite of the intended effect -- Tommy feels every hair on his aching body rise in apprehension, fight or flight swiftly kicking right to his gut. "It's -- it's not like we have anything else to do. Schlatt's off sleeping, Mexican Dream's fuck-knows-where. Just you and me."</p><p>
  <em> Just like exile. </em>
</p><p>The smell of tobacco is even stronger, permeating Tommy's hair, nose, throat, every inch of him -- like Wilbur's own hands are on him. Back in Pogtopia, Wilbur was always holding onto Tommy's hands, arms, shoulders, like letting him go would make him vanish, like he was a lifeline. He can't anymore, but at the same time, he's found a different, more effective way. Tommy hears his breathing get louder again.</p><p>"Unless someone comes and joins us, obviously," adds Wilbur casually. "I've been feeling like there's a space for Tubbo opening up -- "</p><p>"Shut the <em> fuck </em> up," snarls Tommy, some proper remnants of his spirit returning in full force. "I swear, bitch, don't you <em>dare</em> talk about Tubbo like that, fuck off and go play with your cards, just don't say that, <em>don't."</em></p><p>Wilbur laughs in response, a high-pitched cackle that is almost forced. <em> Tommy, you were never in charge. </em> "Oh, <em> Tommy,</em>" he says, jocund and riddled with fervor. Sickeningly, Tommy cannot remember a time when his brother sounded so content, so satisfied. Wilbur sighs, and Tommy can see the haze of thick smoke, another shade of charcoal smeared across the neverending black. "Oh, god, I'm so happy you're here." </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>God, writing Wilbur like That actually took something from me. Is this very long? No. Did it still take a ridiculous amount of energy to stay in the confinements of canon? Yes. But knowing my luck and this server, this'll be outdated in an hour. </p><p>Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are very rad and very appreciated.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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